


World enough and time

by greased_lightning_rod



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Absurdly self-indulgent idfic, Character Study, Cuddles, Fluff, Hair touching, Other, Softness, naps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 09:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20190031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greased_lightning_rod/pseuds/greased_lightning_rod
Summary: Crowley spreads out on the sofa, snoozing indolently, his feet thrown over one arm. The sun streaming in through the dusty windows caresses his face, throwing his cheekbones into ever starker relief; he looks like nothing so much as a particularly lazy cat. The sight fills Aziraphale with a companionable sort of sloth and some other nebulous, soft thing, curling around the soul of him and setting up house; really he knows it’s been squatting there for decades at least, and Aziraphale is only now getting around to putting a name on the paperwork.*Crowley naps. Aziraphale ruminates. Also, there is hair touching. Also known as, the softest thing I could imagine writing. Originally posted on Tumblr.





	World enough and time

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my [Tumblr](https://aziraphallist.tumblr.com/post/186808042416/world-enough-and-time). Come and say hello!

Aizraphale doesn’t mean to do it, and Crowley is unconscious when it happens. That’s just how things work with them.

They’re in the bookshop, a handful of days into the world’s new beginning. The waning heat of August lingers in the air, infusing everything with warm light and a sense that change is coming.

Aziraphale has never particularly liked change. He holds on to things, grasps them too tightly; it’s why he has a bookshop that doesn’t sell books, why he wears clothes he’s curated over the decades and not ones conjured from the aether. It’s not _angelic_, to hold on to things the way he does, but he’d rather have sushi and old books and dinners at the Ritz than a holy war, any day.

On this particular day Aziraphale is finishing up the week’s accounting while Crowley spreads out on the sofa, snoozing indolently, his feet thrown over one arm. The sun streaming in through the dusty windows caresses his face, throwing his cheekbones into ever starker relief; he looks like nothing so much as a particularly lazy cat. The sight fills Aziraphale with a companionable sort of sloth and some other nebulous, soft thing, curling around the soul of him and setting up house; really he knows it’s been squatting there for decades at least, and Aziraphale is only now getting around to putting a name on the paperwork.

He shifts in his chair, considering. It’s cool over here, but the sofa would be more comfortable. And he could take advantage of that little patch of sunlight Crowley’s left for him. He’s only doing sums; he doesn’t need a desk for that. He can just… bring his ledger book with him. Honestly, it’s almost sacrilegious to let that space next to Crowley’s head languish un-sat-upon when the sun is at just the right angle to bathe them both.

The sofa needs only the slightest coaxing to budge over another six or seven inches to make room for Aziraphale. It’s as comfortable as he knew it would be, and he hums in satisfaction as he opens the ledger on his knee. He needs only a few more minutes to finish, and then he can… read a book, perhaps, one of his favorites. Or maybe he’ll—

Crowley stirs beside his leg, sighing. He doesn’t wake, but the string-bean length of him stretches and compresses from his scaled toes to the tips of his hair. He wouldn’t appreciate the cat comparison, but it’s never been so apt; for all that Crowley’s crown butts into his thigh, an apparent unconscious reflex, this searching out of touch, he won’t thank Aziraphale to note his soft places, the cliffwhite skin of his throat, behind his ears, the sliver of belly above the rise of his jeans. He is the innocent flower and the serpent under it. Aziraphale, to his own surprise and chagrin, finds himself equally besotted by both aspects.

The ledger book falls softly to the floor, unlamented.

Crowley won’t thank Aziraphale to note his soft places, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t starving for gentleness. Aziraphale has felt that yawning pit himself often enough to recognize it when he sees it, when Crowley sighs again and pushes up against his leg. Just like a cat, and just as mercurial; Crowley’s as likely to hiss and claw as he is to purr, if Aziraphale sets one toe out of line. But it hardly matters; there isn’t much Aziraphale wouldn’t forgive him, and he can only resist the softwarm lure of Crowley’s hair for so long once Crowley stretches again, this time until his head rests on Aziraphale’s thigh.

It’s easy, then, to slide his fingers into scarlet locks, easy to give in to that specific gravity, to fall: easy to stir up the scents of bergamot and citrus, to caress the tender almost-damp skin behind Crowley’s ear, the slight cavity at his temple, just the right fit for Aziraphale’s thumb.

Crowley sighs again, a deep sound ripe with contentment, and the accompanying stretch leaves his head entirely in Aziraphale’s lap, elegant neck curving over Aziraphale’s thigh, hair a silken spill over his fingers, and if Aziraphale was trapped before, he’s a prisoner now. But a willing one: he can’t think of anywhere he’d rather be, anything more important to do than offer this physical comfort that Crowley cannot ask for conscious. So he strokes, and he pets, and he files away every sigh, the length of every strand of hair, the fall of the light and the scent of Crowley’s shampoo here, in this room, faint and mingled with the ground-in scent of old books and stale tea. The warm, solid weight of Crowley in his lap, trusting, unaware, content, though Aziraphale has done little to earn his trust and less to deserve what underlies it.

Aziraphale has never particularly liked change, but for this—oh, for this he can make an exception. Surely he can change enough to deserve, now, what he never has before. 

“Mmm,” Crowley hums, not quite a purr, but there’s time yet. He doesn’t open his eyes.

His hair tickles Aziraphale’s wrists. Was it this long before? No, it can’t have been; Aziraphale would remember. A few moments later it’s halfway to his elbow.

How long can Aziraphale coax him to grow it, before he wakes?

“Hush,” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley quiets again, lax against the cushions.

The sums can wait.


End file.
